


Blood, love, duty

by hiratake



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mild Gore, Original Character Death(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 15:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiratake/pseuds/hiratake
Summary: Oblivion gives and Oblivion takes, only sometimes the exchange is not fair.
Relationships: Farwil Indarys/Bremman Senyan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Blood, love, duty

The scar was raised, creased and uneven, but worst, it was visible.

Battle marks set the warriors apart from the common folk, giving a testimony to one’s bravery. Most of them were also unsightly, so it was natural of Augustina Senyan to demand of her son to dress properly for the funeral of his friends, and above all, wear gloves.

At first it was supposed to be a small, symbolic ceremony. There were no bodies to be buried as they did not return from Oblivion, but the Hero of Kvatch managed to recover some of the medallions Knights of the Thorn wore into battle. They were to be placed in the Chapel crypts, sealed behind an inscription bearing the names of the fallen. Services like this bore interest only to the family members, so there was no need to blow this one out of proportion. However, Count Indarys saw this as an opportunity to present his son as a hero of Cheydinhal, so he called for a grand ceremony.

Bremman would also find himself the center of attention, which meant wearing appropriate clothing. His mother believed that people would like to see an image of a hero and he should heed their wishes.

“Put on a show for them, would you? These are hard times.” She insisted, handing him short velvet gloves. The ring and smallest finger on the right one were filled with crumpled fabric, to mask the part of his hand that was burned off by a flame atronach. Bremman put them on; it looked almost as if the wound never existed and he was back in times before the tragic raid on Oblivion, before Erik was thrown into the lava and Olivier’s guts were spilled by a dremora.

These were hard times indeed.

“Thank you, mother.” He replied without looking up. Something in his voice must have sounded touching, because in quick strides she moved to embrace him.

“You don’t need to go if you don’t want to. We’ll go in your stead.” Lady Augustina whispered “I’m sure Count Indarys would understand, and Farwil too.”

“I have to.” The words felt heavy in his throat, almost constricting. Was it the smoke and ash of Oblivion still lodged in his mouth? “They were my closest friends, brothers in arms. I need to say goodbye to them.”

His mother stepped away, frowning. She has always been against Bremman’s involvement with Knights of the Thorn, thought it was concerning for a young man to spend so much time on what everyone considered children’s play. Citizens of Cheydinhal thought they were immature boys, who pretended to be warriors instead of growing into their expected roles in society. In a cruel twist, they died for real.

The Order was Farwil’s idea, a way to show off, nobody remembered to whom exactly. Maybe the Count and Countess, maybe the county guards, or some other individuals who previously scorned their attentions? Bremman joined after hearing Farwil’s impassioned speech about protecting Cheydinhal and helping its dwellers. There was a conviction burning deep in his eyes, like fire of the Red Mountain; it captivated Bremman to the point he could only think about signing up. For a long time they didn’t concern themselves with any protecting or helping duties and everything was good. When they finally did, it ended in bloodshed.

A crowd gathered in front of the Chapel, alive with a murmur. It undulated gently as new people arrived and left. When they saw Bremman and his family the whispering halted. As he made his way through the mob he heard words of praise, felt light pats on his back and shoulders. It was his father who responded to them, his sister who smiled in return. A few people wanted to shake his hand; Bremman offered the left one.

Count Indarys was not there yet, but Farwil was, standing guard next to the entrance of the crypts. No one approached him, not even Jhared, who preferred to stay closer to the families of the fallen. Last time they’ve been there together was for Countess’ funeral, Bremman remembered. All of them, not versed in the art of mourning, just standing next to Farwil as he tried not to cry. Much later, in the comfort of their lodge, the future Count of Cheydinhal got drunk and bawled his eyes out into Pyke’s shirt before puking all over his clothes.

It felt as if it happened a lifetime ago. Farwil seemed much older now, much more worn. His skin didn’t yield to the fire with the same ease that Bremman’s did, but daedric lands left their mark on him too. A jagged line crossed though his left cheek and brow. A Dremora blade nicked his eye too, and the wound bled so badly they couldn’t staunch the flow with their limited supplies. In the end he did not lose sight, one small boon in the sea of misfortune. There were many other scars marring his body, snaking down his back and along his legs, engraved memory of a mistake that could have been avoided.

“Cold reception for a hero of Cheydinhal.” Bremman observed, taking his place at Farwil’s side. The Dunmer greeted him with a smile. For a moment it seemed everything has gone back to normal, but then he noticed a jeweled box in his hands. It contained five medallions with the same inscription that Bremman wore close to his heart. Some of the original ones were lost to the fires of Oblivion, but Farwil ordered their replicas, so all the fallen Knights could rest together.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s out of respect or fear.” Farwil was toying with the rim of the box, sliding his finger along the exquisite pattern “If you told me before that people would change their opinion of me, I would do everything to make it happen. Seems it didn’t work as intended.” He paused and lowered his eyes “Even father treats me like this now.”

Bremman noticed it too, in his family’s hushed voices and poignant stares, the way his sister refused to look at his missing fingers and how his mother cut all the discussions that mentioned Knights of the Thorn. They were both overbearing and distant. Everyone else was like this, except Farwil.

“You are – we are – an exception. Most people don’t come back from Oblivion alive.”

“Nobody treats the Hero of Kvatch like a beast on a public exhibit.” The Dunmer sighed “When the savior of Cyrodiil decided to buy a house here, my father went out of his way to make this as easy as possible. When it comes to me nothing is easy anymore.”

He tapped the ornate lock “But unlike the Hero of Kvatch I am not a living legend.”

If the Hero of Kvatch found them just a few hours later, they would have succumbed to their wounds. By the time the champion stood over them Bremman has lost all hope of survival. Whenever they cut down a daedra, it seemed three new ones sprung alive in its place, the way back was blocked so they had to move forward through new waves of enemies, navigate between traps that waited under their feet and over their heads. Compared to that a funeral should be easy, yet Bremman felt the same chill that enveloped him in Oblivion. Then the chapel doors flew open, signaling the Count’s arrival. He arrived right in the center of everyone’s attention, gave a sign to start with the ceremony.

Funerals were devoted to the memory of the dead, but concentrated on the living, the ones in mourning. It was a cruel mercy that Gerard’s mother, her face hidden in her hands, never saw the Daedroth’s jaws snapping on his head. The monster bit hard enough to crush the skull, deform it into bloody pulp, tear the skin from the bone. She did not have to live with the memory of his eyes, pleading for help before they burst under pressure, did not witness the last moments of her only child.

Hymns to Arkay filled the chapel, a dramatic melody masking sobs from the crowd. Bremman glanced at his family, keeping perfect composure, and at Jhared. The other knight stood completely motionless in a studied posture. Farwil decided to never tell him the details of their friends’ deaths, instead settling for a neutral “they died as heroes”. He said the same thing as he placed the box with medallions into a small recess in the crypt wall, leaving what remained of Erik, Gerard, Mathis, Olivier and Valent to be buried behind a slab of stone; mentioning the pain they went through in their last moments would not do any good.

After it was done Farwil returned to his spot next to Bremman. Their hands brushed together in a casual gesture, impossible to notice in the solemn atmosphere. In Oblivion, when their eyes closed and their mouths were too parched to utter a sound, a sense of touch was the only way to bolster their hopes. For Bremman, who spent his teenage years pining for the Count’s handsome and unreachable son, it was a complicated thing. He lost countless nights to fervent dreams of Farwil’s skin against his, waves of dark hair pooled in his face, whispered sweet nothing in Dunmeri language. There were many backgrounds to those fantasies, some less reasonable than the other, but he never wished for barren, lava-filled wastes with a trail of blood in their wake.

The ceremony ended and the crowds dissipated, leaving only a handful of mourners. Valent’s father stormed off without a word, shooting a displeased look at Farwil. He has already voiced his opinion on Knights of the Thorn and the decision to venture through the Gate on their own. Valent was one of the most cautious in their ranks. When Jhared suggested they should team up with the City Guard, he was the first to back him up. The votes were split; Bremman hesitated at first but in the end took Farwil’s side – the Dunmer’s fervor has never failed to sway him. Still, Valent was free to turn around and leave. He chose to stay out of his own volition.

Besides, open hostility hurt less than the sight of Mathis’ old mother, taking Farwil’s face between her veined hands and saying “Thank you for being with my poor boy to the very end”.

“He was one of the bravest, kindest men I’ve ever known.” The reply came in a strained, hushed voice, but it was all true “I shall always honor his memory.”

Lady Nissil reached out to Bremman, placed her hand on his arm “He always spoke highly of you all, considered you his best friends. I just wish he didn’t die so far away from home, without a body to mourn.” Bremman, wrapped in the chaotic heat of the battle, did not witness Mathis’ death, only the aftermath of his scuffle with a Clannfear. His face and throat were torn into strips of flesh, unrecognizable save for the ashen skin peeking from the red horror.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t secure his body.” He said, his tongue weak “He died a heroic, merciful death.”

There was someone observing them from the shadow of the side nave. Since the Oblivion crisis Jhared behaved in a haphazard pattern, either trying to get Farwil’s and Bremman’s attention or pulling away from them. He thought the Oblivion raid was a stupid idea from the start, but when the votes were cast he agreed to take part in it. Leaving one person behind was Farwil’s idea, a safeguard in case something went wrong; if they were gone for longer than a day, he was to inform the Count. Without his help there would be no survivors, but Jhared denied any praises. Even now his face tightened as he watched Bremman approach him.

“It’s been weeks, but I still can’t believe they’re gone.” He said, looking towards the stairs leading out of the crypt “When I’m at the Newlands I sometimes see movements out of the corner of my eye, as if somebody was just opening the door, and I brace myself for one of Erik’s shitty jokes, but there’s only silence.”

“I never thought there would come a day I’d miss those.”

Jhared smiled wryly and stepped aside. Bremman nestled into the base of the column next to him. It was a good place to observe people shifting in and out of the Chapel. He saw the Count heading out, surrounded by a number of castle staff and guards. Farwil did not follow him, turning back to the memorial instead. For a moment they stood silent and vigilant, three remaining Knights of the Thorns saying farewells to their fallen friends.

“When you were trapped there for a moment I feared I would never see any of you again.” Jhared’s tone was somber, resigned “In a way, I still fear it.”

Bremman felt his throat constrict “What do you mean?”

“You seem to be straying further away from this world with every passing day, especially Farwil. Oblivion changed you – of course it did, as almost no man came out of it alive – but you try to further the divide even more. For Talos’ sake, you didn’t even tell anyone what really happened there.”

“Jhared, we have told you everything-“

“Yes, in a fabricated way that omitted everything that wasn’t pure and heroic. It’s impossible that everyone died in a clean, painless way, brandishing their swords and swearing their last fealty to Cheydinhal. Your wounds tell a different story.”

The scar on Bremman’s hand started itching. The atronach’s fire engulfed his forearm in the blink of an eye, partially melting the steel plates of his glove. He was able to remove it only some time later, when they got to safety; two of his fingers came off with it.

“We didn’t want the families to know.” He stated, looking away “I don’t think old lord Rienne would survive the details of Oli’s death. None of them would.”

“I understand you wish to protect them, but it’s unfair for the two of you to bear this burden alone. I should have been there, in Oblivion, but I wasn’t, so the least I can do is to listen to you.” Jhared sighed “Just talk to me when you are ready.”

There was one thing Bremman’s family failed to understand about Knights of the Thorn – their sense of companionship. The irreplaceable friendship that bound him to every member of their order was worth all the jokes and hurtful comments. Most of these connections were severed on this fateful day, but two remained. With Farwil it was easier, in a way, but recent circumstances have set Jhared aside. He felt a pang of shame; a friend, a brother in arms should not be left behind in any way.

“I’m sorry.” He glanced aside. Farwil was leaving the crypts alone, without glancing back. There was no need for any confirmation; every evening after Oblivion was a routine they couldn’t break “You should come to the lodge sometime.”

“Just like you, I’m not ready yet.” Jhared stepped forward. There was no malice in his voice, only resignation “Take care, both of you.”

The crypt was emptying. He stayed inside for a little longer, half-hoping to hear a voice of his friends. Erik’s bad puns, Gerard’s gentle chiding, anything would be good. There was only a distant murmur of words, none of them spoken by the people he wanted to hear.

Bremman’s family was waiting in front of the Chapel. His mother linked her arm with his, pulling him towards their residence.

“You must be tired, Bremman. Let’s go back home.”

“I’m good, mother, I just wanted to go to the lodge for some time first. I will come back tomorrow.”

He stepped back, but a hand tightened around his wrist. Cassius Senyan had a different idea of what his son should be doing.

“We are going home and you are going with us. You’ve caused your mother enough grief with your childish folly.”

“We’re just worried about you.” His mother said in a pleading voice “Ever since you were rescued from Oblivion you hardly spend any time at home.”

“I’ve been spending the same amount of time in the lodge as before.”

The grip on his hand remained firm “And look where it brought you and your friends. This whole tragedy could be avoided if instead of playing knights you focused on things that actually mattered.”

‘Playing knights’ mattered to Bremman, but he kept his mouth shut. It was pointless to argue with his father on this topic; every time the discussion swayed towards Knights of the Thorn, Cassius Senyan got angry and dismissive. Farwil Indarys was a fool unfit to ever lead any organization, let alone Cheydinhal, the order was a drinking club for immature youths and Bremman’s involvement in it was a waste of time. There was no reasoning that could convince him otherwise.

Motherly hands encircled his other arm “We’re family, Bremman. You can tell us whatever is plaguing you and we will listen.”

Truth was, he had no words to say. Last weeks were a blur – there was the Oblivion crisis, ended by Martin Septim’s noble sacrifice, after which the other provinces started to stir. News of overwhelming destruction reached Cyrodiil, from High Rock to Summerset Isle, countless lives lost and torn apart. There were signs of disquiet, for now a hushed murmur passed along unhappy citizens, but able to escalate into a full-blown war. Bremman’s own pain was mixed with all those other stories, it had no form and escaped all forms of speech. Farwil did not want any explanation, only company.

Resigned, he allowed to be pulled in the direction of the Senyan family home. A few hours of being a good son were a small price to pay for an evening in the lodge. He dutifully played the part and slipped through the city gates just after the sunset, passing by the burned out remains of the gate without a glance.

The lodge was dark and silent. Not much has changed from the night of the Oblivion raid: a half-emptied wine bottle still adorned the table, cups strewn around. They forgot about them during the preparations, too busy with readying weapons and putting on armor. The ground and first floor, as well as the basement, were unused since then, preserved in this eerie state. Farwil and Bremman spent their time in the uppermost chamber.

The room was illuminated by a single candle. Warm light accentuated pale scars on Farwil’s face, played with brown highlights in his hair. He was sitting close to the flame, thumbing through a book and squinting at the page. When Bremman climbed the stairs, Farwil looked up and smiled.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come tonight.”

“Sorry, family business.” Bremman sat on the bed. He glanced at the cover of Farwil’s book; _Guide to Cheydinhal_ “I’m glad I could liberate you from this horrible piece of literature.”

The Dunmer tossed it aside “I remember being outraged at the part about my father and mother, the accusations this woman was making about my family. A few months in and I’m starting to believe in her wild theories, now that father is talking about another marriage.”

Bremman scooted closer, until his knee touched Farwil’s “We all thought he was going to start looking for a suitable wife for you, not himself. I’m glad he didn’t, but that is… unconventional.”

“The situation is unconventional too. Helseth is losing support with every day, so Hlaalu nobles are looking to secure their future. There are plenty of families that seek refuge outside of the province. Many of them would have given all their wealth for protection of the Count of Cheydinhal, but our future is also uncertain.”

“You are citizens of Cyrodiil, nobody would dare…”

Farwil leaned into him, turned around so his face was out of Bremman’s view “First and foremost, we are Hlaalu. In Morrowind the ties of Great Houses matter more than blood and flesh. Besides, I doubt High Chancellor would send any troops to help us if we got attacked. The Imperial City has its own problems.”

Fear snuck down Bremman’s spine in a cold ripple, but he kept his voice neutral “What do we do if this happens?”

“I don’t know, _serjo_. We put on armor, we take our weapons, we die in battle.” Farwil’s hands gently encircled Bremman’s crippled one, still masked by a velvet glove “Maybe we should leave before the war comes here, I can’t fathom the thought of letting you suffer again.”

It wasn’t possible, of course. Both of them were tied to Cheydinhal by blood, love and duty, prepared to sacrifice themselves in the name of this land; they already did it once, after all. Nonetheless, the vision was alluring: a young Dunmer noble and his Imperial companion, travelling together to High Rock or Hammerfell. They would settle among the buzz of a big city and find some modest occupations, free from obligations and safe from war.

Too bad no place was safe from war these days.

“We’ll see, Farwil. For now let’s try to get some rest, it was a long day.” He combed the fingers of his good hand through dark hair “Feels final, doesn’t it?”

The Dunmer nodded “A few days ago I noticed first amanita caps popping from the ground in the courtyard and I thought ‘Mathis is going to hate it, he always sneezes in the amanita season’, even though I saw a fucking Daedra rip his face off. But now they have been buried and I finally need to let them rest.”

“Let’s hope there are no amanitas in the afterlife, and that women there love bad jokes, so that Erik could finally become the heartbreaker he always wanted to be.” Bremman looked around “I feel like we should drink to that, let me grab some wine from the cellar.”

“There should be one in the cupboard here, if you don’t mind drinking from the bottle.”

Indeed, the second drawer from the top contained a bottle of vintage Surilie “I didn’t know we had good stuff here.” He said with awe “You keep such delicacies hidden while we drink sour sewage from the basement?”

“Perks of being a Count’s son. Give me the bottle, I’ll open it.”

Bremman couldn’t get a proper grip on the cap, scars and soft velvet obstructing his movement. Frustrated, he tore off the gloves and threw them into a corner. They landed on top of the discarded _Guide of Cheydinhal_.

Farwil cleared his throat “All things considered, it healed rather well.” And then, changing the subject “Wine?”

Bremman took a swig from the bottle. Surilie vintage tasted sweet, fruity. It was much better than the Knights of the Thorn had ever drank together, but the memory of so many get-togethers still managed to bring tears to his eyes.

Kicking off his shoes, he settled on the bed next to Farwil, shoulder to shoulder with his friend, wordlessly passing the bottle. Their evenings together were often spent in silence; Bremman sometimes thought that Oblivion took away his will to speak. Despite Daedric shrieks and the gurgling of lava, a careless word meant death there. Scorched air carried every sound to the enemies’ ears like a song on the wind, betraying their hideout. There was no hope left if they were found. And so Bremman bit back his words, used his hand and the charred ruin below his elbow to put a makeshift bandage around Farwil’s head, unpin the cracked greave, try to immobilize his broken leg.

It was easier to provide aid than to receive it. The sight of Farwil’s long, elegant fingers against the burned flesh was nauseating to this day. It was a gentle touch, yet Bremman only felt dull pain and discomfort. A nobleman should not be forced to handle such gruesome things, it was so improper to even expose him to this disgusting sight. But then Farwil stroke his cheek and wiped the stray tears that didn’t evaporate yet, so Bremman felt he was forgiven.

A voice brought him back to the reality “I was thinking about naming you my official consort.”

Bremman thought up several responses to that statement, some more clever than the others, but he just stared at Farwil. The Dunmer shrugged.

“What? It would make things easier. No marriage proposals for the both of us, no conflicts with noble families of Morrowind, no more complaints from your mother about how unpopular you are with maidens…”

“I don’t think the Count is going to like your plan.”

Farwil snorted “I’m more concerned with whether you like it.”

“The Imperial law doesn’t cover… such cases, does it? There are also people of Cheydinhal, they might not be so accepting.” He glanced at Farwil, who was opening his mouth to speak, and quickly added “But the thought is lovely.”

Bremman has never dreamt about it, not even in his most extravagant fantasies about himself, Farwil and the rooftop terrace of Riverview. Even now he doubted that Farwil’s suggestion would ever leave this room, let alone reach Count Indarys’ ears. To his surprise, he didn’t care whether the world recognized their union. Even if Tamriel denied it, the wastes of Oblivion became their witness, which – as he realized all of a sudden – had loads of implications on its own.

“We got together in Oblivion, didn't we? So this technically makes Mehrunes Dagon our matchmaker.” He blurted out without thinking “May Stendarr forgive us.”

Farwil looked at him with furrowed brows, but as they looked at eachother the Dunmer’s façade started to crack, the corners of his lips twisting up until he started laughing. Another voice joined in; it was Bremman’s own laughter, strong, full and healing, one that he hasn’t heard in a long time. It seemed to come from his heart, squeezing tears out of his eyes and cascading down the walls of the lodge with the strength of seven men. There was no use crying for the dead, when Farwil was still alive, and Jhared, and all their families, neighbors, acquaintances. The order of things has been horribly distorted, but life was returning to its usual flow.

It took a long time, but Bremman Senyan was finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel as if I wrote 4400 words and didn't say a thing, but at least some of those words seem pretty enough?


End file.
